


dancing on moonlight and memory

by JaneScarlett



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 19:35:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneScarlett/pseuds/JaneScarlett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She hadn’t been sure until then, but she suddenly had a feeling about who their guest was and why the Doctor had invited him on tonight of all nights in 1872.  History might have placed his inspiration with a poem and a trip to the Parisian catacombs… but oh, her meddling Doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dancing on moonlight and memory

**Author's Note:**

> written for Halloween, but -as ever- I am super late about posting!  
> Inspired by Saint-Saëns ‘Danse Macabre’.

He loved it when he got to dress up, perhaps because his last regeneration had hated it so; had scoffed and grumbled a little too much about how the trouble he found himself in was often threefold when he was in formal dress.

But, the Doctor thought as he preened in the mirror, admiring himself from all angles, he was more mature this go round and willing to admit that perhaps Martha had been right about it not being the fault of his clothes. (After all, it did seem that no matter if he wore bowties or celery, scarves or even a frock coat...trouble did tend to attract itself to him like flies to a particularly hungry frog.)

So he was through worrying that tails would get him into even more trouble than tweed. He was older and wiser now… and a thousand years old is certainly old enough to appreciate the cut of a well-tailored jacket and waist coat, the shininess of new, pristine shoes... not to mention the elegance of a top hat...

Which was twitched off his head a moment later. He frowned, turning to face his wife; frowning harder when he realized that River had it perched on her own head, resting precariously on her curls.

“No hats, Doctor.”

“But-“

“ _No_. Not this time. And besides, you’ve taken quite long enough without needing additional time to primp over the angle of your hat brim. Honestly,” she sighed, “you’ve taken longer to get ready tonight than I did with all your fussing in the mirror.” Her eyes lit with a wicked gleam.

“I really thought the traits from your female regeneration wouldn’t start for a while. Must be that they predate the actual event.”

“River!” He blushed, the tips of his ears heating to a red rarely seen in nature. “I am not, and have not been and will never be-“

She coughed once. Elegantly. Pointedly. He immediately stopped talking.

“Spoilers?” He squeaked.

She winked.

The problem with them being all back-to-front and mixed around was that sometimes, he couldn’t tell when she was teasing. He pouted; and she leaned over to press a kiss on his cheek.

“You know,” River said conversationally, carefully hanging the hat on a hook, “sometimes, you worry too much Doctor; and about the strangest things. You look fine tonight. If I were pressed, I might even use the word…hot.”

“I just wanted everything to be perfect...”

She smiled, obscurely pleased by his way of trying to make their dates special. The care he gave to his appearance; even though she never told him that she didn’t really care. It was enough, them being together.

“It often is, and worrying won’t make the outcome any different. And…” she paused, lips twisting into a sly smirk, “don't sulk. It'll give you lines.”

He smoothed his fingers over his forehead, hastily. It was a pity that River knew how to play off his vanity.

And he wasn't sulking… Well, alright. Maybe a little; but sometimes, like tonight, he felt it was warranted. It could be miserable when he had the best of intentions and River _laughed_...

“This is an extremely special night,” he continued doggedly, adjusting his bowtie. “A once-a-year night, River!”

“I know,” she answered, her smirk softening into a real smile. “You tell me so. Every year.” She batted his hands away, tweaked his bowtie into place herself. “And every year, nothing goes wrong _and_ you manage to look handsome enough to have me on your arm.”

He'd protest that it should be the other way around; but really, she was right. So he kissed the tip of her nose, sliding his hands over the curve of her waist to pull her closer until he could murmur into her ear.

“So no need to worry, then?”

“None.”

“You look beautiful, if I may say so?”

She gave a delighted little peal of laughter, fluttered her eyelashes girlishly. “You may. And thank you, sweetie.”

“And you think I look-“ he preened “ _hot_?”

River sighed, ducking her head down to hide her smile.

“You always do,” she admitted softly.

“But… you’re sure it wouldn’t be better with a hat?”

“No, Doctor, it wouldn't. _Every year_ you try to wear the hat; and every year you lose it in the shrubbery, or the King tries to steal it...

“So,” she shrugged, “I'm forestalling the inevitable, sweetie. No hat this time. Anyway, don't you have more important things to attend to?”

He did; so he only sighed, casting a last regretful glance at the hat before rummaging into the corner of the wardrobe to pull out his old recorder and a battered violin case. And then –recorder in his pocket, violin tucked under his left arm, River's hand placed lightly on the crook of his right- they strode out the TARDIS to attend their favourite party of the year.

_____

“I think,” River murmured a few minutes later, her fingers straying to the blaster he knew she’d hidden in a thigh holster, “there's someone watching us. Just there in the trees… I think I saw something move.”

“No need to shoot,” the Doctor scolded, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “He’s an invited guest.”

“We’ve never invited anyone to this before.”

“First time for everything!” The Doctor sounded rather deliberately cheerful; and River narrowed her eyes.

“Well,” she muttered flatly, “he’s exhibiting strange behavior for a guest. I’d say he’s hiding. Does he know he's invited?”

“Just cautious,” the Doctor said blithely. “He always thinks he can fool people with his serious face…” He looked away, beckoning to the man hiding in the shadows. “Cammy! Ready for a party?”

“Doctor,” the man said curtly, stepping into the light, “I've asked you not to call me that.”

“Oh, you know you don't mind! What are friends for?”

“To give each other irritating nicknames, apparently,” River cut in smoothly, extending one hand out in greeting.

“Doctor River Song. Charmed to meet you... Cammy?”

“Charles-Camille. Camille, if you don't mind?”

“Not at all.” Her smile was pleasant, gracious; and Camille nodded, pressing River's fingers gently with his own before turning back to the Doctor.

“Quite a cryptic message you sent me,” he said dryly. “Come meet you for the party of the year and a sight I won't forget?”

“You wouldn’t believe that amount of times he uses that line,” River whispered confidentially. “He's occasionally right-“

“Often!” The Doctor gave her an injured look.

“Occasionally,” River continued, ignoring him. “But this happens to be one of those times.”

Camille looked around. They were standing on an empty stretch of grassland in the French countryside, nothing around but the outline of a village church far off in the distance, the dark sky above them speckled with stars and weak moonlight.

“Hardly seems the setting for what you’re claiming,” he said finally.

“Well... Yes, it’ll be a party,” the Doctor said. He paused thoughtfully. “I suppose you could also think of it as a memorial, an honoring of those passed...

“But,” he rubbed his hands together, gleefully, “mostly a party.”

In the distance, the church bells began to toll. River counted under her breath: “One, two, three, four...”

The wind blew a soft, cool breeze; and Camille looked around suspiciously.

“Nine.” River counted a little louder. “Ten, eleven… twelve.”

Silence. Even the crickets were quiet as the clock finished tolling, signaling the start of the witching hour. Despite the light breezes swirling around them, there was a heavy, expectant feeling in the air; and River sighed.

“You're keeping them waiting, Doctor. It's not polite to be late when we're all ready.”

He grinned, nodding at her. Leaned over, pulling the violin from the case and pausing to casually rosin the bow.

“Is he going to play?” Camille whispered.

“He's going to try,” came River’s amused answer.

“In all the time I’ve known the Doctor, I didn't realise he was a musician…” The violin made a squeal, a raucous cry to shatter eardrums and make your teeth vibrate.

“He's not.” River had a fond smile on her face as she surveyed her beaming husband: violin tucked beneath his chin and bow grasped incorrectly in a fist. “But give him time, he'll get better. This -if you want to call it music- is merely a warm up. A rallying cry, if you will.”

“You’re being tactful, Doctor Song. No one with ears would call –this– music! It sounds like it could wake the…”

Camille stuttered, stopping abruptly with his mouth open; and River laughed softly at the look on his face. 

“Yes,” she answered. “His playing _is_ capable of waking the dead.” 

Camille’s eyes were bulging, face pasty white in the moonlight, lips quivering so hard that his heavy beard and moustache trembled. He was frozen, eyes darting right and left as pale figures rose from the ground around them, drifting and swaying like smoke on the night air. And then he smiled, slightly.

“A sight I won’t forget, indeed.” He sighed, with a wry hint of amusement. “I should have guessed the Doctor had some sort of strange event planned.”

“It’s not strange!” the Doctor called, furiously sawing away on the violin strings to make a cacophony reminiscent of stepped-on cats and trumpeting elephants. “Welcome to the best party, ever! River and I visit every year!”

“To wake the dead?” Camille asked incredulously. His brief flash of amusement morphed into an expression of distaste as he closed his eyes from the specters before them. “Surely they deserve more respect… how macabre.”

“It’s not to wake them,” River corrected, her voice soft as she patted Camille's hand. “We don’t come here for disrespect. But once upon a time, these people loved to dance…”

Camille opened his eyes, looking around at the figures still rising from the ground. “And I suppose that tonight… tonight they can, once more?” He smiled slightly when River nodded; then winced as the Doctor hit an especially appalling pitch.

“I’m sure,” River murmured, “that you’ll be grateful to know that the musicians are coming. They’re the first ones to wake, which thankfully means the Doctor will give up torturing our ears soon.”

“Oi, I'm brilliant, River!”

“You are, sweetie. Just not at the violin.”

“Well...” He shrugged, stopping his musical massacre to hand the violin to a slender figure that appeared beside him. It looked like it was a thin, man shaped column of light, with long arms and legs and fingers that gratefully caressed the violin, reverently tightened the bow before breaking into a lilting dance tune. Camille sighed, shaking his head in time with the beat, visibly relaxing now that the Doctor wasn't playing anymore.

“I have a lot of skills,” the Doctor said, facing his wife.

“I _know_.” Her tone was full of innuendo, and he blushed slightly; bowing to hide it before extending a hand to her.

“Dance?”

“Yes, I suppose that's a skill too. Even if not the one I was thinking of.”

“River!”

She just laughed, placing her hand into his. “Of course. But what about…?” She tilted her head in Camille's direction and the Doctor shrugged.

“Oh, Cammy will be fine where he is.” He grinned, turning for a moment to watch Camille’s rapt fascination with the spirit musician. “I have it on excellent authority he’ll find tonight to be quite… inspiring.”

“Is that so?”

“Well, he’s a musician. And quite the renaissance man… even though, of course, this isn’t the Renaissance. But he’s a supporter of the change of ideas… In fact,” the Doctor said excitedly, “at this time in his life, he leads the way into the new, romantic ideal of music.”

“Mmm.” River leaned her head back as they promenaded with the ghosts, thoughtfully eyeing her husband. She hadn’t been sure until then, but she suddenly had a feeling about who their guest was, and why the Doctor had invited him on tonight of all nights in 1872. History might have placed his inspiration with a poem and a trip to the Parisian catacombs… but oh, her meddling Doctor. 

“And – _Cammy_ – is a composer, too, I suppose?”

“Might be.” His eyes twinkled; and she stretched up to kiss him, her lips just brushing over the corners of his own even as their feet didn’t miss a step of their waltz.

“Doctor.” She couldn’t keep the incredulous note out of her voice. “You _stole_ Camille Saint- Saëns to come to a party of ghosts?”

“ _Invited_.” He stressed the word, and she rolled her eyes. “Stole would mean that I kidnapped him to bring him to another time! This was an _invitation_ , River. He responded of his own accord.”

She sighed. “Don't you ever get tired of meddling, Doctor?”

“It's not meddling!” he protested. “The music he’ll write based on what he sees tonight will live forever. It’s not meddling at all; I’m just giving him a bit of…help."

“Help.” She turned her head, watching the other inhabitants of the party joining them as they waltzed in the moonlight. This early in the evening they were still slender forms of light, featureless except for vague arms and legs as they spun in circles, then spiraled off, two by two; but she knew that before long, they would look real, they would solidify into pale shades of who they’d been before death took them.

“You can’t fool me,” River said flatly. “I’m an archeologist, Doctor.” She ignored his scoff of disgust. “I’ve studied history, even if music is not my field of research. And I know the stories… He'll try to get people not to play it; he'll think such a piece of whimsy will threaten his reputation. A song about ghosts dancing to a violinist who calls them back from death?”

The Doctor shrugged, twirling her around until her curls bounced on her shoulders and her cheeks flushed in giddy pleasure. Across the way, she could see Camille, his face awed and eyes wide as another spectral musician picked up the recorder and joined the violin in a glorious counterpoint.

“Trust me,” he murmured, voice deliciously low in her ear. “No matter what he says, he won't forget this night.”

_____

Tonight was one of the nights that made River fully understood why the Doctor always had to have companions. It was too easy for the amazing to become commonplace; but seeing it fresh though a stranger’s eyes… River sighed in contentment, her full skirts bunched up as she sat on the ground, kicked off her shoes to wiggle her toes into the grass.

It had to be thirty years already they had been coming here, dancing at this ball of the dead… but something made this particular night special, and she suspected it was Camille’s presence. His awe and excitement as the music played endlessly, as he watched the dancers turn from ephemeral spirits into pale solid people. He laughed as the children darted around the adults playing a game of tag; sighed in romantic understanding at the sight of a couple sitting side by side on the grass, needing only each other for company.

“Am I disturbing you, Doctor Song?” Camille sank down beside her, and River shook her head.

“Not at all. I’m just taking a rest; besides, I think I know what’s going to happen…” She groaned, catching a glimpse of the Doctor standing next to the violinist, arms flailing as he made a series of emphatic gestures.

“As it gets later, the Doctor persuades Miles –that’s the violinist- to give him a few pointers. It never works.” She shook her head fondly, watching her husband bouncing on his heels with excitement as he positioned himself with violin and bow; and then she and Camille both winced as a shrill wail ripped through the air. They watched as Miles played a few notes, then put the violin back into the Doctor’s hands, trying to fix his stance and grip before he imitated him.

“I think,” River chuckled, “that this has become a game for the two of them: Miles teaching him but proving he can still best him.” 

“Maybe if he practiced?” Camille asked, plaintively rubbing his ears. 

“He said once that it’s not fair; Miles can’t practice during the year, so he won’t either.”

“That doesn’t make much sense, Doctor Song.”

“No,” River admitted. “But he’s the Doctor. I’m not sure sense is part of his genetic makeup.”

Camille hesitated, clearly reluctant to state on his mind; but River was feeling too tired, too peaceful to hedge or sit in an uncomfortable silence until he was ready.

“Just ask,” she said, turning to face him. “I know that you’ve got a question?”

Camille tilted his head, the light illuminating the contours of his brow and cheeks, gilding his beard silver.

“Why?” he asked. “Why do you come here? Is it really only to dance with the dead? And… what sort of hold do they have over the two of you that you come do that?”

She paused, pointing her feet straight in front of her. It was getting late… or early, depending on your point of view. She could almost see the grass turning from a solid patch of darkness into a deep, deep green… which meant dawn was coming soon, and the party would be over for another year.

“They’re not human,” River said finally. “They might look it, but they’re a race called the Acri… their planet used to be right there.” She gestured upwards. “Three stars off from Orion’s belt. It’s just a little bit of darkness now; but once it was ruled by a gentle King and Queen. It was beautiful, all waterfalls and rolling hills… and almost every night, the people used to dance. The peasants would dance in the fields, and even the royal family would promenade and waltz in their gardens.

“The Doctor took me there,” River admitted. “I was young… barely out of University, and he told me I’d love it, this land where dancing and movement paid homage to their gods and their culture. And he was right. I did. I’m not –“ she smiled self-consciously, remembering the skittish girl she’d been then; not Melody or Mels, but still not yet convinced she was River “- _peaceful_ , but I loved being there.

“And so when they were invaded, I agreed with the Doctor that we had to help them. We got as many of the Acri as we could onto one of their crafts, told them we’d arrange to find them another planet somewhere. Except…” she sighed, “except that they crashed here on Earth, and everyone perished… and so their country was gone, and the people were gone. In trying to save them, we’d inadvertently doomed them all.”

Camille was eyeing River in quiet horror. Abstractly, she supposed she deserved it; but to be fair, he was human and he could never understand. The weight of helping other planets, other races on your shoulders. The thrill when you managed it, the days when everyone was saved and everyone lived.

And the grief on the bad days. The ones when your best wasn’t good enough; when there was a dark spot in the heavens where used to dwell a planet, or an empty place in the universe where someone who should have been there wasn’t anymore.

 _They_ both knew. River looked up at the Doctor just as he glanced at her; and they exchanged a smile, soft and sad.

“As the Doctor said, it’s a party.” River laced her fingers together, studying the shape of her hands in the growing light. “But it’s also a memorial. Honoring those who have passed. We couldn’t save them… but we can call them back from death for this one night, and let them dance again.”

____

Nothing can last forever, and River already knew the night was rapidly drawing to a close when in the far off distance, the faint calling of a rooster wafted through the air; and as one, everyone froze. The Doctor, his face falling sadly as he took the violin from Miles’ hands, reaching out helplessly to hug him.

“Till next year, then?” he said, trying to smile.

Camille looked around, watching as one by one the ghosts turned pale once more, gleaming white in the approaching sunlight as they sank back into the earth.

“They’re gone?” he asked unnecessarily. The Doctor, River and Camille were the only ones left on the grass, blinking as the sun lit the sky with a rosy glow.

“One night only, that’s the deal,” River said. She stood up, stretching her arms above her head. “And now they’re gone again. Until next year, at least.”

Camille stood, brow furrowed. “Doctor Song told me,” he said finally. “About what happened to them… why you come out to dance with them every year.”

“Ah,” the Doctor said, glancing at River. A look passed between them. A ‘don’t invite someone and not expect them to ask questions; well, you didn’t have to tell him the truth!’ sort of look.

“Yes,” he continued. “I thought she might.”

“I don’t think,” Camille said slowly, “that I can understand exactly what she mean. I’m not even certain that I can believe it… a race of people from the heavens, crashed here on Earth?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Sounds like something of nightmares.

“But,” he paused, “I can appreciate why you do it. Why you come here, let them have the semblance of life for one more night. And I thank you both, for letting me be here to share this with you. With them.” He smiled suddenly. “I don’t know if I’ve ever heard music like that before… what Liszt would think of those waltz melodies!”

The Doctor shrugged, a faint grin stealing over his face as he glanced again at River. “Maybe you could write something that used them. Like… say, an homage of dance tunes? I think an orchestral setting would be amazing…”

Camille sighed. “Doctor, as you’ve proven with your violin playing, you are not a musician. I’d think a setting of voice and piano… in fact, I think I know the perfect poem to use… Perhaps I’ll call it the joyful dance. _Danse joyeux_.”

“I think,” River said dryly, “that the original word you used was…macabre?”

“No, no…” Camille was visibly distracted. “Joyful, my dear Doctor Song. A joyful song, a joyful dance!”

He kissed their cheeks, already beginning to hum the waltz melody of what River knew would one day be known to the world as _Danse macabre_ as he turned to go back to Paris, leaving them standing alone on an empty stretch of grass in the early hours of morning. River raised an eyebrow, trying not to smile.

“We tried,” she said simply. “I suppose he’ll discover the right name and orchestration on his own.”

“Eventually. Liszt will help. Or maybe I’ll pop by close after the first premiere, suggest a few changes…”

“More meddling?”

“It’s not meddling,” the Doctor said cheerfully as he scooped up violin and recorder, extended his other arm to River to escort her to the TARDIS. “Helping.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Well. A good night, I think.”

“A very good night. With an unexpected, but very special guest.”

He watched her closely as they walked into the TARDIS, a hopeful smile on his face.

“What do you think, River? Perfect night after all?”

“I did tell you,” she murmured, leaning into him and kissing softly up his neck: once, twice. “Sometimes you worry too much, and about the strangest things.

“A perfect night, Doctor. As it tends to be, when we’re together.”

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s note: Danse Macabre was composed in 1872 for voice and piano, based upon a French poem by Henri Cazalis. It was met with a negative reception from audiences, who disliked the disturbing effects that Saint-Saëns had created.
> 
> Shortly after the premiere, it was transcribed into a piano arrangement by Saint-Saens’ friend (and fellow composer) Franz Liszt; and in 1874, Saint-Saëns expanded and reworked the piece into an orchestral tone poem, with the vocal line being replaced by a solo violin.


End file.
